If We Fall
by Awel
Summary: Barty Crouch reflects on his wife, his son, and the world he has built for himself.


**If We Fall**

**Awel**

_"Fortune rota volvitur: descendo minoratus; alter in altum tollitur." The wheel of Fortune turns: dishonored I fall from grace, and another is raised on high._

—_Carmina burana_

Elena hadn't moved from her bed for a week now. She kept all the shades drawn and her door closed, her excuse being that she needed sleep. Sometimes she'd wake enough to do something. Read, or write letters in her careful hand that created each letter exactly the same distance from its predecessor, adding a crossbar on her 7's like they did on the Continent because she thought it looked more refined—letters that were sent by owl to places Barty didn't know. For six days he had convinced himself it was only a not-so-subtle form of manipulation, but his assurance had lost its power over each passing day.

Barty stared down at his own writing, slanting firmly across the parchment with rounded, even strokes. Somewhere above him he noticed a movement—one of the photographs they'd taken some years ago of himself and Elena on Mount Snowdon, smiling. Winky usually tended to Elena these days, but it always happened when Barty didn't notice, as he never noticed the elf cleaning the fireplace or replacing the cup full of quills on Barty's desk with new, stiff quills that emanated new, stiff smells that wouldn't wear off until he'd used them for a week. Until seven days ago Elena would come in every night, no matter how sick she would be at the time, and sit beside his desk in the small, straight-backed wooden chair that was there. She'd never talk, but watched him as he worked. Sometimes he'd note her appearance, but then he'd drift back into business and, always meaning to talk to her after he finished one more sentence, would forget her presence until he heard the door close softly behind her.

In the week she'd been bedridden, Barty had said he liked it better this way; that he didn't even know why she bothered to come in each night. If she wanted to see him, what was the point of just sitting there and watching? But outside his study, he realized, the house belonged to Elena; from her overflowing purse that stood on the hall table to their room where the carpets and furniture had all been chosen by Elena-but it wasn't only that; it was the rest of the house, the part Elena had declared she'd never change, because she loved it. "I love it because it's so grand and old and forbidding and it's the kind of place you ought to be scared silly of—it's the kind of place you can't see anyone loving, except aging heads of a failing dynasty—you can see them perhaps loving it—but no one expects a girl like me to love it, so I do." Barty couldn't remember his own reply, but he could bring back every word Elena had once said about each detail of the house. She'd first seen it as a young girl about to be married, running up to every doorway and grabbing it by both sides and leaning in, straining her glance to cover every corner of the room before she entered. When she had to leave she'd turned to Barty seriously and said, "Do you think aging heads of failing dynasties do love life more, because they're going to die and they'll be all alone?" Barty had laughed and said that he didn't know and he hoped he never would.

He hadn't slept in their room for a while now, ever since Elena had complained that he disturbed her sleep. She'd been very apologetic about it, but Barty hated sleeping in the other room anyway because it required him to pass Elena's door every night. He left his study and, as on other nights, paused outside Elena's door, wondering with hand almost on the latch whether or not he'd decide to go in. He never did. He wondered if she was lying awake inside, listening to his footsteps approach and stop and start again, straining to hear the latch rising, and then sinking back into her pillows and her torpor when, each night, she heard the steps recede.

Barty sipped absentmindedly from a glass of water while sorting through the files that lay on the kitchen table. The table, like the house, was an antique: chipped and scarred and permanently shining from centuries of polishing, though Winky insisted upon polishing it after every meal anyway. Elena had said it felt like eating at a museum piece and had eaten at the more modern counter Barty's parents had installed. Barty had reverted back to the table in the last few weeks, citing that it was more convenient for him. If Elena was annoyed, she never had given him more than a slightly disapproving look.

He was working while he was eating, something Elena also frowned upon-reviewing the files in the Rookwood case; all the details of the trials reduced to a stack of papers stamped with the official Ministry seal and the name printed in block letters at the top: Augustus Rookwood. Sometime before Barty had sat in his office and stared at another file with another name, his finger tracing it over and over as if trying to smooth it away, or to see if the ink would blur.

He'd refused to write a public statement or to accept reporters from the _Daily Prophet_, and had only left the house to go to work, Apparating every time so people couldn't catch a glimpse of him on the street. (There's Barty Crouch, you know him, yeah, the one whose son was with You-Know-Who. There's Barty Crouch, whose son killed the Longbottoms. Not killed. Yeah, not killed, but as good as, and you might even say that's worse. There's Barty Crouch—wonder what he did to make his son turn out like that.)

Elena, after her collapse in court, had been determined to be if not cheerful then at least stoic, and had made an effort not to talk of the matter at home. There had only been once—after the trial but before the sickness had left her bedridden. She'd said, "Tell me the truth. Just this once, and I shan't ask again—promise?" Barty had replied of course he promised.

"Did he do it?" Elena asked him, looking past him towards the fireplace. "Is Barty guilty?"

His son fit the name Barty better than he himself did, he thought. He'd taken the name Barty years ago as part of the image he'd been wanting to project, as a new employee of the Ministry of Magic and a great believer in the importance of one's image. He wanted to be seen as a hard worker but also a genial, social man who was close to other people. Now he felt a slight irritation at the name whenever he heard it, but for all intents and purposes, he was stuck with it.

The name had other problems too. Barty had once had a dream of the file with his son's name on it, presenting the papers to the Ministry judges and hearing them say "Bartemius Crouch, found guilty on all charges" and being taken away to Azkaban, all the while vainly protesting that they had it all wrong, it was his son who'd used the Cruciatus Curse on the Longbottom family, not him, it wasn't fair. Barty wasn't the sort to put much stock in dreams and dreams never troubled him by recurring in his sleep. But after that he had to remind himself periodically—it was his son, his son who was wasting away in Azkaban, no fault of the elder Barty.

His wand was propped against a jar full of flowers whose petals were beginning to droop and grow soft. It was giving off a faint, golden light. "_Nox_," Barty whispered, his voice sounding harsh and louder than usual to his own ears. He picked the wand up, along with his papers, and made his way along the hallway to his study. When he opened the door he was greeted by the sight of a head sitting in the fireplace.

"Hello, Barty," it said wearily.

"Arthur," said Barty, smiling just a little. "Been a while. How are you? Have you been waiting long?"

"Not well," replied Arthur Weasley. His red hair looked odd among the flames, many of which were almost the same color, giving the whole scene a clashing look. "Had to go out to Azkaban—get a statement from some fellow who went around killing Muggles with an enchanted sword—Merlin's beard, Barty, do you know what it's like? When you're really depressed you think that everything could be better, and you remember all the little ways fate or whatever you want to call it screwed up and made your life worse than it could have been—and all you can think of are the what-ifs, you know, Barty?" Arthur's face looked strained, and Barty nodded in agreement.

"Well, it's not like that," Arthur said suddenly. Barty, twisting his wedding ring around and around on his finger, didn't look up.

"It's like when you know all the bad things, you know everything terrible that's ever happened in your life and you can't think of anything better. You think of your earlier dreams and realize they were stupid and not worth it. You try to think of things that used to cheer you, but there's no alternative. You sit there hating yourself and you can't escape."

There was silence. After a while Barty looked up, past Arthur into the flames. "I've never been to Azkaban," he said lamely.

"I know. He's dying, Barty," said Arthur abruptly, staring out of the fire intently.

"He deserves it." Barty turned away. No use to pretend he didn't understand.

"He's your son."

"He was a Death Eater and he drove the Longbottoms insane." Barty's back was still to Arthur. He stared at the photograph that mocked him with his own smiling face. "I knew them, Arthur! And now I look at them and I don't even know if they have any sort of coherent _thoughts_, let alone what they are! I—" He trailed off. Behind him he could hear Arthur speaking again.

"Who deserves that—who deserves Azkaban? Don't we all in some way? Elena used to say there was something good in everybody, no one was all bad."

"Elena," gritted Barty through a half-closed mouth, "is a wonderful person who never quite grew up."

"It's not a crime, Barty." Arthur paused. "I've got to go. I just wanted you to know."

Barty didn't even turn around at the small pop that announced Arthur Weasley's departure. Arthur—he'd seen Arthur's feelings reflected in the words of others at the Ministry, the whispers of his colleagues. That's Barty Crouch, Mad Barty Crouch living alone with his wife as a hermit in a house that's falling down.

He peered out the window, over the hills that marked his land. Was it falling down? For the first time, it seemed, Barty noticed the stream that had been dry for over a year now, the west wing of the house that had some broken windows and whose walls were overgrown with some sort of creeping plant. Elena had liked it, he remembered, simply because she'd come from the States and had never seen it before.

No, it wasn't falling: just gradually sinking into oblivion, paralleling the life of his son that Elena still loved. She'd always maintained that you couldn't condition yourself out of love. She was wrong, Barty reflected; he no longer felt for his son—but there was still Elena. Elena! Elena patiently waiting for him all those weeks. Elena as she'd once been, wide-eyed and amazed that Barty could ever love someone like her, amazed they were married, amazed they had a son.

He jumped slightly. Elena! He stood at the window for another moment, then turned around, towards his desk and the old photo. He studied it, half hoping the two figures in the frame would look at him, but they were both sleeping.

Leaving his unfinished work on the desk, Barty opened the door and started off down the hallway, going slowly so as not to startle Elena. He'd go in, and she'd be waiting for him, and he would tell her he loved her. It would be all right; everything would eventually. Even his son: he thought he could love him, for her. Maybe she was right after all.

He stopped at the handle that he'd never worked up the nerve to pull. He pulled.

It was locked.

Barty felt as if he could conquer the world. Triumphantly, he pulled out his wand and whispered, "_Alohomora_!" (He'd tell her the answer he'd never been able to give her, when she'd asked him whether Barty was guilty that one day.) The door creaked open. (He'd kept silent all this time but he could tell her now, he could tell her anything, even that he loved her, now that he knew things were going to be fine.) Barty stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him. (He could tell her the truth now: he didn't know, had no clue whether Barty was guilty. Certainly there was evidence against him and certainly he was with the Death Eaters in spirit, but still he didn't know and had never been sure.)

Elena was sleeping. The light from underneath the door faintly illuminated her slightly breathing form. Barty stopped, holding the wand in his hand foolishly, like a child caught doing something illicit.

Quietly, calmly, Barty sat down in the chair that sat at an angle to the bed, close enough to touch her but refraining from doing so. He sat and he looked at Elena and every so often he thought of his son.

He didn't wake her. Eventually he got up and went out, closing the door softly behind him. The bright light in the hall outside bored into his head as he emerged. He leaned against Elena's door and closed his eyes to shut it all out.


End file.
